Rebound (Seattle Steelheads #1)(13)

Like Laura, though, Valerie was sure they’d come around in time. And besides, whatever less than charitable feelings they had for me now would only get worse if they thought I was dumping them off on their mom. They were raw enough over Marcus ghosting them. Now was not, my ex-wife had reminded me, the time to let them think I was doing the same thing.

So they still spent every other week with me, though they sometimes came and went every couple of days as they worked around extracurricular activities. When they were gone, I came home to the empty, silent box that wasn’t nearly big enough for the three of us but somehow still felt cavernous and hollow, especially when they were here.

And now I was even more exhausted. The thought of going home to my kids had carried me through the worst deployments. Now they didn’t want to see me, they were hurting like hell because I’d taken them away from Marcus, and I kind of dreaded when they were home because the tension was unbearable. Maybe it really was time to see that counselor Valerie had taken them to before she’d remarried. God knew I wasn’t getting anywhere with them on my own. Now if I could just figure out how to scrape up the copays. Fuck.

I toed off my shoes, draped my hoodie over the back of the couch, and shuffled into the bedroom. I put my pistol in its safe, left my wallet and keys on the dresser, and lay back across the bed, still fully dressed.

Talking to Asher tonight threatened to send me down the guilt spiral that started up whenever I thought about the toll my breakup had taken on my relationship with my kids. Sure, I hadn’t been happy with Marcus, but it wasn’t like he ever got violent. He never used physical force to get what he wanted in the bedroom. It could have been a lot worse, so was it really that bad?

Exhaling, I rubbed my eyes. Yes. Yes, it really had been that bad. Just because Marcus had never held me down didn’t mean he hadn’t badgered and coerced me. Just because he’d never raised a hand to me didn’t mean he hadn’t backed me into metaphorical corners or used any kind of leverage he had at his disposal to get anything he wanted from me. Just because I’d ultimately consented—to sex, to giving him his way, to backing down from a fight—didn’t mean I’d wanted it.

Then I’d go to work and respond to domestics. See victims of real abuse. Black eyes. Busted furniture. Broken bones. Sometimes it got a lot worse than that. And as soon as I’d leave the call, I’d berate myself for thinking what Marcus did qualified as abuse. He was kind of a dick, yes, and I was miserable, but abuse?

I sighed again, dropping my hand on to the bed beside me. I’d never admit it to anyone out loud, but there’d been times I’d irrationally wished he would hit me. At least then I could say, “Yes, my boyfriend was abusive,” without feeling like I needed to qualify it twenty times over with, “Well, he never touched me,” or “It wasn’t really physical, but…” Like I’d needed that bruise so I could cross over from nebulous “abuse is in the eye of the beholder” accusations to cut-and-dry assault and battery.

But he never did. I’d never been afraid of him the way Asher was clearly and justifiably afraid of Nathan. I knew I was lucky in that respect, that things could have been so much worse, but where did I go from here? How did I trust myself to date again? How did I trust other men not to be like Marcus? Or like Nathan? My kids and I had been through enough. The prospect of getting out there and meeting someone—even having a one-night stand—was terrifying because I’d seen too much on the job and experienced too much firsthand to believe anyone out there was safe. Or that I would have the spine to stand up to someone who wasn’t. Or that I’d have the balls to leave before things got this bad.

Fuck me, but I was weak for letting Marcus treat me like that for so long. Even worse, I’d let him manipulate my kids for all that time. I’d let him get them wrapped tightly enough around his finger that if and when I dared to leave, he could break their hearts as a parting shot to me.

Groaning, I sat up and rested my hands on the edge of the bed. Yeah, I’d fucked up with Marcus. I’d let him slowly and steadily turn both of my kids against me, and now I was paying for it, one chilly, hostile custody week at a time.

There were a lot of things the asshole had done that I could shake off and move past, but this? Manipulating my kids to the point that they hated me for leaving him? That wasn’t something I could forgive. Not even if I wanted to. No, I’d hold on to that shit like I held on to combat memories. It was tattooed on my bones.

I just hoped my kids would eventually understand and forgive me.

Which probably meant I needed to explain the whole truth to them.

How the hell do I do that?

*

“Exactly how late did you stay at the hockey player’s place last night?”

Laura’s question made me choke on my coffee. I very nearly spat it on her, which she would have richly deserved. Once I’d coughed a few times, I sputtered, “Sorry, what?”

She smirked and turned her attention to the report she had propped against the cruiser’s steering wheel. “You said you were heading to his place after shift when you couldn’t reach him, and now you look like you haven’t slept in a month.” She signed the report, then glanced at me. “What time did you get home?”

“What exactly are you implying?”

“That you look really, really tired?”

I rolled my eyes and sipped my coffee, which I didn’t choke on this time. “I went by and checked on him, then went home. I just didn’t sleep very well.”